Cutting Vengeance

 

He’s not a simple boy who drives his cars in circles until they crash into each other.

He smashes his matchbox to see what kind of kick back he can get.

The impact of plastic covered metal into skin.

Which will hit the floor the last, the victim or the perpetrator?

The other boys and girls always cry.

Weeping and wailing over carpet burns.

 

The teacher wretches him up and sets him aside.

He’s in for a stern talking to again…

Why? Why?

It’s more than cause and effect.

He likes the control he has.

But at the meager age of three all he can do is scowl.

She is just a crone in flat soled shoes and yoga pants.

She pants and she always has to rest her eyes.

Yet she can lift him up and let his legs dangle,

Lift him up right into the line of her vision.

But she’s always watches him.

They all do, it isn’t fair.

 

He stews through lunch.

The other children chat and sing about flies and bees.

It puts a smile on the teachers’ faces.

He watches them smile at each of the children.

Even the ones singing while chicken nuggets are half hanging out of their mouths.

He thinks about hair, how something apart of the body can have no nerves.

And yet he had seen people cry as it’s was cut.

 

As the children settle to their cots he puts a pair of pink safety scissors under his cot.

He twists and turns as the children settle

The crone lets out an exasperated breath before she closes her eyes.

She is soothed by the sawing rhythm of snoring

He sits up and looks around

The lullaby skips and then the cd stops

The teacher does not move

She leans further down, she looks more and more like a blob

Wrinkles and fat

Lines and circles

 

He slides his scissors closer

And gathers the loops,

He snips at the air as he walks.

He likes the sound of metal scratching at metal.

He runs his fingers across the dull blade.

He never bleeds.

The teacher lets out another deep breath and he steps back

But then she slumps further on the floor.

He pokes at her paunch with the scissors,

She doesn’t stir.

He walks around her and grabs a tiny fist full of hair and squeezes it in his palm.

He wants to pull, yank and just see how strong he could be.

He doesn’t dare.

He can’t tell time, but he knows when a moment has passed.

 

The scissors glide effortlessly through the lengths,

falling on to a child’s forehead.

He blows it off on to the child’s pillow.

He cuts all he can on one side and now he’s feeling bold.

He leans right over her and tackles her bangs.

Minces them like the chicken nuggets he did not want cut.

He leans over her just for the sheer joy of it.

The thrill that runs through his blades.

Then he shifts to the other side,

He cuts faster and in smaller lengths.

Experiments with the sound he could make.

The louder the better.

He slows and stops as his hand cramps.

He sets the scissors underneath the bed of the girl who always cut’s the Barbie’s hair.

He doesn’t like her face.

The End

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